Sink
by AtrociousNothing
Summary: Watch four seasons of GoT in two days, have zero literary talent and a mad crush on a certain turncloak; this is the result.
1. Vilify

_"Ride East. Follow the rising sun."_

_The coarse cloth was torn from my head. Even in the gloom of the fetid dungeon, there was no looking past those eyes. In that instant I supposed they were reminiscent of gemstones, or grass in the midst of summer. Something kitsch, precious and unbound. The eyes of a saviour._

_My messiah told me to ride East, to Deepwood Motte._

_I rode, I rode, I rode, just as he told me to._

_Then he asked me to follow._

_I followed, I followed to where he led._

_I should have known he was bringing me to heel, teaching me a lesson._

_My green-eyed Master is not kind, nor does he have any qualms about getting blood on his hands. I believe he enjoys it. He is fond of his games, especially the sort of increasingly imaginative sports that illicit screams from me. No, not screams. The sounds that have been torn from my ragged lungs were inhuman howls._

_His latest game began as my bleak dungeon filled with the smell of pine tar. The viscous liquid boiled over the fire, bubbling obscenely. _

_Understand that pine tar does not carry the bittersweet twang of evergreens underfoot; it is closer to the aroma of week-old corpses in the sun. There is nothing sweet in the smell of pine tar._

_Like an artist, my Master painted the sickly molten sap on my forearms as I shrieked, cried, moaned, wailed, begged. The tar scalded me, but worse still, it set._

_My arms were laden with the stuff, they smelt like rot and they felt like bark._

_When my Master tore it off, my flesh came with it._

_My messiah, my Master, a monster._

_"If you think this has a happy ending, you haven't been paying attention."_

* * *

The Prince of the Iron Islands awoke with a howl, rousing the other occupants of the Dreadfort's kennels, affectionately known as "The Bastard's Girls". Even two weeks after the Ironborn army had taken the Bolton fortress, he had refused to move out of the dogs' quarters. Whether out of fear or faith was anyone's guess.

The woman charged with caring for the ailing Prince and keeping the kennels approached the fragile young man with concern, kneeling outside his cell. "More of the night terrors, m'lord?"

"Not a lord," he stammered, shivering in the rags he refused to discard. "Not a lord. Reek, Reek, Reek. Not lord. Reek is my name." She gazed on the snivelling man with pity, unwilling to continue that line of conversation.

"You look cold," she commented, twisting the frayed edges of a thick cover as she held it out suggestively. "You may sleep easier if you take a more comfortable bed, m'lor- Reek." Tentatively, he approached the bars of his self-imposed prison and they sized one another up.

His caretaker was dark. Her hair and eyes were like mud, her skin, once lighter, was burnt working under the sun. She was plump, had a heart-shaped face and a full chest, but was unremarkable. He may have fucked her, once upon a time.

Her charge, by comparison, was the antithesis of this. His eyes were stormy shades of grey, his hair a fair brown verging on white. The sharp angles of his jagged cheekbones were accentuated by the hollowness of his face and eyes, the result of severe malnutrition, otherwise evident all over his body. His complexion was fair, having been raised as an almost-Stark.

He surprised them both by swinging open his iron lattice door. "Come," he mustered, beckoning to her. "I can't leave, or Master will flay me."

"Lord Theon, I do not th—"

"Not Theon!" he whinnied. "Theon is the name of a lord. I am not a lord. Theon is dead."

Stooping, almost on her hands and knees, the woman crawled into the claustrophobia-inducing cage, trying to ignore the grime saturating the straw-strewn floor. She falteringly draped the goose-feather blanket over the man's scrawny shoulders although he jerked and cringed and could not meet her eyes.

"May I?" she questioned. The once-proud Ironborn shrugged, feigning nonchalance, inviting her to scoot closer. Sighing, she sat against the wall. The cobbles dug into her spine. The Bastard's Girls went back to sleep.

"We've met before," Theon Greyjoy whispered.

"Yes, we have," she replied. "I was there when you were anointed by the Drowned Man. Theon—"

"Reek!" he interjected, stirring the dogs once more. "I must not forget my name."

"Please," she murmured staunchly, daring to take his mangled hand and squeeze it gently. "Please listen to me. When you knelt in the sea, do you remember what was said?"

"What is dead may never die."

"What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger than before." His three-fingered hand was gripped in hers, the pad of her thumb tracing his ragged knuckles. "Theon Greyjoy is not dead."

* * *

**This story is titled for the song of the same name, Sink, by Iwan Rheon. The dude who plays Ramsay Snow/Bolton. Turns out he's good at flaying people **_**and**_** making soulful indie music.**

**The chapter is named after the song Exile Vilify by The National, who also play a gorgeous version of The Rains of Castamere.**


	2. The Storming of the Dreadfort

When the black and gold army stormed the Dreadfort, they did it in the night, swiftly and brutally.

Yara Greyjoy knew the Boltons were too well-equipped to fall to a protracted siege: their castle was supplied by The Weeping Waters, it was well-fortified, and she knew Lord Ramsay Bolton would not let anyone of value to him go hungry. The men flying the sigil of the flayed man had outnumbered that of the Ironborns three to one.

The eldest living child of Balon Greyjoy was no fool. She realised that some underhanded tactics were in order. They would not make the same mistakes they had last time; she gave the order that no man bearing the Bolton colours would survive the night.

Those prowling around the castle were afforded a quick death: they were gurgling and drowning in their own blood before they could think, let alone scream. Those in bed were not so lucky. The doors to the barracks were sealed and set alight, the screams of the charring soldiers inside echoing from the ocean to Long Lake. Amidst the smoke and pools of blood, Yara ran for the kennels.

It broke her heart to see her brother huddled in the corner of a cage.

It filled her with rage to find the green-eyed Bolton heir huddled beside him.

"Get away from my brother," she commanded, her voice sounding more sure than she felt as she bore down on the monster that had mutilated her closest family.

Lord Ramsay cupped Theon's battered face in his hands, whispering things that Yara would rather not hear. Kissing the skeletal man briefly on his cracked and bloodied lips, the renowned sadist stood, his hands raised in mock supplication even has two blades hung at the belt around his waist.

"Yara Greyjoy. I have heard so much about you. My friend Reek here speaks most highly of his big sister."

"Don't call him that," she spat, brandishing an axe in her left hand and a short sword in her right. Ignoring her, Ramsay surged onwards, circling around the pens.

"Rest assured, he did not neglect to mention your beauty! He recounted your seduction of him on the shores of Pyke with alarming clarity, telling me how the poor prodigal son unwittingly fingered his sister— I'm afraid he doesn't do you justice." The mad young man cackled mockingly, looking Yara up and down hungrily.

"No," she snarled. "You disgust me, bastard."

"I'll become your Lord Reaper of Pyke, and you will be Yara Bolton, my Lady of the Dreadfort! It has a lovely ring to it, wouldn't you say Reek?"

Their sullen and submissive audience nodded. "Yes, m'lord."

"There, see? Reek agrees."

"I told you not to call him that. His name is Theon Greyjoy, and he is our Prince." Ramsay furrowed his brow quizzically.

"Does that mean I don't become Lord Reaper once we're married?"

"No," Yara spat, "It means that whatever was done to him will be done to you five times over."

The meek and shivering Prince watched in muted horror as his armoured sister lunged at his Master, thrusting her sword directly at his abdomen. He could hardly breathe as Lord Bolton parried the blow with his cleavers, the metal shrieking and The Bastard's Girls howling along to the music. Yara slashed with her axe, narrowly missing a chance to bury it in Ramsay's wrist. He retaliated with a swipe that would have cost the ironborn her nose, had she not ducked. Viciously, she kicked his leg out from beneath him and he tumbled atop her. If her axe hadn't found his throat, he would've made a snarky remark.

The steel blade never faltering, the fair-haired woman shoved Lord Ramsay Bolton off her, and backed him against the wall.

"You are sick," Yara hissed, leaning in close, "and you will pay for what you've done to my brother. Any moment now, my men will arrive here, and each of them—"

Out of desperation and a degree of lust that violence never failed to ignite within him, Ramsay lurched forward, pressing his pallid lips to her salty, still-open mouth, nicking his neck on her blade in the process. Without missing a beat, the eldest Greyjoy clobbered Ramsay Bolton over the head with the hilt of her sword. He smiled as his vision swam and darkened.

"It was worth a shot, right?"

Whimpering, Theon clutched at the bars that surrounded him, watching as his Master was dragged away by soldiers bearing the mark of a kraken.

"Theon," his sister coaxed, holding out her hand to him.

"My name is not Theon," he choked. "I know who I am. I know who you are. I know who my Master is."

"It's alright, the bastard of the Drea—"

"He is no bastard! Don't come near me," the broken man warned, curling up into himself. "I will wait for Lord Ramsay here. Tell him I'm waiting for him, won't you? Tell him that Reek is always loyal."


	3. Sepsis and Lima Syndrome

As the heavy metal-hinged door screamed open, Lord Ramsay Bolton's head snapped up. By this point his eyes were well adjusted to the gloom, and he could make out the lean form of the Greyjoy Princess marching towards him.

"My lady," he greeted cordially, his voice beyond hoarse and his swollen lips breaking into a smile. "To what do I owe the honour?"

Wordlessly, she stared down the green-eyed monster. Until recently, his pale skin had been porcelain and unblemished - like milk or maybe marble - but now it was caked in blood; he bore bruises the colour of rotten fruit; small patches without skin were raw rainbows from visceral yellow to queasy purple. His cock, which had yet to be amputated, hung pathetically in the chill of the dungeon and his eyes were red-ringed and bloodshot.

He chuckled faintly. "Do you like what you see, Lady Greyjoy?" Wordlessly, she set to work on the straps that bound his ankles to the grotesque wooden cross. "Excellent. I knew you'd come around, sweetling," he sang, interpreting her stony silence as assent to his advances and thinking himself irresistible. When Yara was finished, he straightened and bowed formally. "My good woman, I thank you for this great kindness. I realise that I must ato—"

He was cut short as the fair-haired, slate-faced woman kicked him in the gut and he collapsed to the floor. Ramsay couldn't help but wonder at how similar she looked to her little brother before he'd broken him and those silvery lights left his eyes. He wondered if he would ever see that defiant smirk again. He wondered if he didn't deserve this karmic retribution.

She kicked him again, viciously, in the diaphragm. The Bolton heir lay gasping in grime, so Yara hunkered down to his height.

"What have you done to my brother?" she growled.

"It's quite a long story," he answered amidst a choked chortle. She gripped his neck with both hands.

"Listen to me, bastard," she breathed. "Theon has taken ill. He sweats in bed even as he shivers. He has difficulty breathing. He has delusions. He screams." Her hold tightened. "In particular, he screams your name. Tell me what you've done with him now, or I swear by every fucking god there is I will _make you_ tell me."

She released him, and he gasped. For the first time since his capture, Ramsay's smile faltered.

"On my life, I've done nothing. Let me go to him."

"I don't think so, Bolton."

"Who else is going to save him?" implored the battered, naked man. "You had the Dreadfort's Maester executed, and I assume that your closest allies are in Deepwood Motte. Reek will be dead before they get here."

"We could enlist the help of those in Winterfell," she suggested doubtfully, biting her bottom lip.

"Don't be stupid. The seven hells will freeze over before they send help." Warily, Ramsay struggled to his knees. "Please, my lady, let me go to him. You may not trust me, but I want to help."

"I don't suppose I have a choice, do I?" spat the jaded woman. Roughly, she dragged him to his feet, and shoved a fetid set of clothes at him. He dressed in a hurry and they trudged to his ailing pet's quarters.

* * *

The room was stifling when Yara Greyjoy and Ramsay Bolton entered. "Open the window," the Princess commanded of the elderly thrall whose eyes had widened at the entry of the unlikely pair.

"No," barked their captor, "the fever needs to run its course." Irately, Yara nodded and the crone stopped lankly. The three of them watched the sleeping Theon whimper, as though acutely aware of his Master's presence.

The Ironborn commander normally possessed a sterling sense of self-assurance; she had grown up quickly, come into her own early. She knew her element and played to her strengths, coolly, calmly, and always in a style that earned her respect if not outright adoration. But watching her beloved little brother writhe in his illness made the brave Yara Greyjoy feel horribly out of her depth.

With a tenderness that surprised them all, including himself, The Bastard of the Dreadfort approached the squirming invalid, sat beside Theon on the bed and smoothed the saturated hair from his forehead. Instinctively, the fevered young man curled into his torturer and heaved a heavy sigh.

"Does he have any open wounds?" questioned Ramsay. The thrall nodded tightly. "Where are they?" he questioned, growing impatient.

"On his forearms," she answered icily. "You should know— you put them there." Ramsay cringed, remembering the episode with the pine tar. It had been amusing... Hadn't it?

Holding his breath, he delicately extricated Theon's arm from under his thick bedding, rolling up the sleeve of his shift. The strips of burnt flesh were ringed with white, dead matter; they were bubbling and festering, weeping viscera; the mottled pattern looked like melted cheese.

"Why aren't these dressed and wrapped?" he demanded, glaring first at the old wrench attending them, and then accusingly at Yara herself. "By your leave, my lady, I think I should be the one to treat our young Prince. Further incompetence could kill him." The armoured woman threw up her hands.

"You leave me no choice, bastard. Know that there will be three armoured guards posted outside every day and night. Until my brother is well again, you will not leave this room."

"Nor would I want to," Ramsay answered.

* * *

**Sepsis is a bacterial infection that results in high fevers, incoherence, laboured breathing and an irregularly fast heartbeat. The chance of death increases 7.6% (I think) every hour that it's left untreated. The infection can be caused by severe burns.  
Lima Syndrome is, in essence, the opposite of Stockholm; the captor falls for their victim.  
See? I sort of kind of know my shit.  
Anyway, I'll be (pleasantly) shocked if anyone is actually still reading this. If you are, you should leave a review or something. It'd mean the world to me. Thanks in advance.**


	4. By the Light of Those Smiling at Nothing

When the fevered young man woke, he found himself holding the green-eyed gaze of his Master. His eyes watered, burning, and as he swiped at his face, Theon wondered if this could be a waking dream. He recoiled, waiting for Ramsay to strike or torture him, or at the very least reprimand him. Or blow that accursed horn at him, smile sweetly, and then say _I'm sorry, where you sleeping?_

But instead, Ramsay leant in planted a chaste kiss on his forehead.

Theon concluded that this was – without a doubt – a hallucination.

"I'm glad you're awake, Reek," the Bastard of the Dreadfort murmured. "I didn't want to rouse you, but we have to redress your wounds." The stony-eyed Greyjoy cocked his head quizzically. Ramsay cleared his throat. "Sit up then." Obediently, his dubious patient struggled to right himself, his body stiff and sweaty from his fretful sleep. He inhaled sharply as the gauze was unwound from his forearm, studying Ramsay from beneath his mop of sodden hair.

"I know it hurts," soothed his Master, "but I'm being as gentle as I can."

"I didn't know you were capable of being gentle, milord," croaked the bedridden prince, testing the bounds of this waking dream. "It's a welcome change." The Bolton heir rolled his eyes, throwing together vinegar, water and salt, swilling it so the latter would dissolve.

"Just don't let word of this leave the Dreadfort," he cautioned with a smile. "I have a reputation to uphold, after all."

It was at that moment that Yara Greyjoy burst in through her brother's door. "Bastard," she spat, addressing him curtly. "Theon."

"Not Theon," hissed Reek, huddling closer to Ramsay. His headstrong sister merely wrinkled her nose in response.

"What are you going to do with that? Marinate him?" she demanded, gesturing to the salt-water-vinegar concoction.

"Salt and vinegar have antiseptic qualities, my sweet lady," her captive answered, daubing at his patient's wounds as the pallid young man fought the urge to flinch. "You'd think an Ironborn would know that, being blessed with steel and salt and whatnot."

Yara grimaced in distaste. "How fares my brother?"

"Why don't you ask him? He can speak for himself."

They both turned their gaze to him. After Ramsay nodded his encouragement, Reek stammered out one word; "Better."

The eldest Greyjoy sniffed her assent. She longed to reach out for her little brother, to comfort him and protect him, but last time she tried, Theon had bitten her. "Very well," she huffed before storming out. "See to it that he wants for nothing."

When she had slammed the door and the sound of her footsteps had suitably receded, Ramsay continued tending to Theon's burns. First, he rinsed them with the salt and vinegar, leaving them to dry slightly before nursing his ragged forearms with black tea.

"Tannic acid," Ramsay explained lightly while he worked. "Black tea contains tannic acid which acts as an astringent." His patient marvelled as the clinical burn of the previous solution dissipated and was replaced with by a cool, clean feeling. Finally, the impromptu medic dipped his fingers into a pot of honey and proceeded to slather it over the wounds before wrapping the entirety of Theon's lower arms in clean gauze.

"Can I get you anything?" inquired Ramsay with a wry, askew smile. "We both heard your sweet sister; I mustn't leave my poor Reek wanting."

Theon was hesitant— whenever his Master did something nice for him, it turned out to be some kind of ploy. He had to marshal a great deal of courage before he could ask for water. When he did, Ramsay Bolton seemed all too happy to comply; although he walked with a limping, uneven gait, he fetched a goblet of water eagerly, pressing it to Theon's lips and urging him to drink. When the chalice was empty, the acting Lord of the Dreadfort set it down and sighed.

"You're hurt, m'lord," observed the ever-faithful Theon, his fingers lightly grazing Ramsay's neck where bruises had begun to bloom.

"Aye, but not nearly so badly as you," the young Bolton replied, catching his captive's clammy hand, the pinky missing, and holding it against his cheek. Unhurriedly, he began to kiss each of his knuckles. "Do you know what your name means?" he inquired between the first and middle fingers.

"Of course, milord, Reek means—"

"I meant your other name. Your real name. Theon."

"That's not my name," he whimpered, recoiling. Ramsay cupped his crestfallen face with that hand that was not already entwined with that of the ashen Greyjoy, tilting his chin up and forcing him to meet his gaze.

"It means _untamed_."

Before his self-deprecating companion could reply, Ramsay leant in and kissed him. Theon was as shy and unresponsive as a stone, sitting perfectly still, but Ramsay would not be deterred. He squeezed the mutilated hand held in his own and pressed their chapped lips together harder, searching for some kind of sign that this broken man could smile again. When he felt Theon Greyjoy's fingers tentatively work themselves through his hair, his lips parting slightly to allow an experimental flick of his tongue, Ramsay Bolton couldn't help but grin.

When they finally broke apart, both flushed and breathless, Theon smiled back. He'd always smiled at the wrong things.

* * *

**Um, yay for codependency...?**

**You know what the name "Ramsay" means? It comes from the Old English word "hramsa" which means "wild garlic". I shit you not.**

**Anyway, you know what you should do? You should shout me a review. If you've made it this far, I'd be really interested to hear from you.**


	5. Green

When Yara walked in on Ramsay and Theon's "tender moment", she was naturally incensed.

Sailors and soldiers alike stopped to gawp as their thin-lipped Princess dragged the notorious Ramsay Bolton to the Dreadfort's dungeons. A lesser commander would have instructed guards to do it on their behalf, but for Yara, this was personal. Ramsay had made sure of that when he'd removed her brother's "favourite toy", maimed him beyond recognition, and then had the gall to _kiss him_…

Sharply, she delivered the green-eyed bastard a vicious backhand. "How dare you?" Yara shrieked as her captive spat out the blood filling his mouth.

"By the gods!" gasped Ramsay, clutching his face and gingerly prodding it in a search for loose teeth. "How dare I do what?"

"Kiss him," she hissed, jerking him forward by the collar of his rags. "How dare you kiss my brother?" The Bolton bastard blinked at her in confusion.

"He has been tortured this past year. A series of unspeakable cruelties have been exacted on him, too numerous to count, too terrible to name. And you're worried about a damned _kiss_? My lady, I entreat you, let me go to him, I promise that I will—"

"I don't want to hear any implorations from you, bastard. I don't want your promises. Let me make you one instead. We Ironborn don't take prisoners," at this, grunts and even cheers went up from amongst the onlookers, "but for you, I'll make an exception. I promise you -on my honour- that you will pay for what was done to my brother. You will pay the iron price." Men bearing the kraken of House Greyjoy cried out in approval, some amongst them thumping their breastplates with armoured fists. "You will pay in blood and steel and when I'm satisfied, you will pay with your life. You will rue the day you met Theon Greyjoy and you will regret ever calling us _scum_." Howls and roars went up from the men garbed in black and gold, as they provided a full-frontal ovation for their merciless lady. They were so raucous that Yara nearly missed Ramsay's response.

"You're wrong."

"Oho, I'm wrong, am I?" asked the captain of the Black Wind mockingly, her soldiers jeering with her. "Tell me, pretty little man, what am I wrong about?"

"I have many regrets, but meeting Theon Greyjoy is not one of those, and it never will be."

Furiously, Yara wrenched her insolent prisoner away by his wrists as the Greyjoy army watched on, muttering between themselves.

* * *

"Is this the blade you used to flay his fingers?" questioned Yara, holding up an unassuming knife so that the bound, naked, spread-eagled Ramsay could see it. Cautiously, he gave an affirmative nod of his head, and vowed that he would not scream. "It doesn't look like much," the Ironborn commented drily.

"Careful not to cut yourself," the infamous bastard of the Dreadfort advised as he heaved a deep breath. "You know the words of my house."

"Aye, apparently the Bolton's blades are sharp, but you are no Bolton," spat Yara, beginning to pierce the delicate marble skin of Ramsay's little finger.

"You're doing it all wrong," he criticized through gritted teeth. "For starters, it's on the wrong hand. Theon's little finger is missing on his right."

"Would you have me cut this one off and start over?" grunted the woman, her fingers growing bloody as she ripped a sliver of his skin away.

"No, this is fantastic," replied Ramsay with too much optimism for a man in his position. "Theon and I will be like mirror images of one another." He grimaced as Yara tugged on the ragged flap of loose skin experimentally. "We'll be a matching pair." She yanked harder. "Are you enjoying this Lady Greyjoy?"

"Immensely. Are you, Snow?"

"It's not as bad as I'd feared. This torture business is severely overrated." By this point, his breathing was laboured and Ramsay was struggling to maintain his unruffled façade.

"I think I'm getting the hang of this," the eldest Greyjoy chirped with a smile, peeling the skin from her victim's pinkie.

"Please, no more," Ramsay finally gasped, his green eyes clenched shut. "Cut it off."

"Cut it off…?"

"Cut it off _please_ Lady Greyjoy!"

"That's much better," Yara purred as she finally removed the digit. Despite his personal oath, the Bolton bastard let loose a blood-curdling shriek, a noise that could hardly be recognised as human; a noise akin to those that left had the lips of Theon Greyjoy. "Let's play a game, shall we?" she posed, ignoring the grotesque rivulets of blood bubbling from her first amputated finger.

"W-What kind of game?" Ramsay queried, already beginning to feel light-headed.

"I'm going to cut you, then you're going to tell a secret. If I find your secret boring, I'll cut you deeper until you let one slip that interests me. If you spill your guts entirely, I may even reward you." The captive inclined his head, and Yara grinned wolfishly. "Marvellous. Let's begin."

She began by dragging the Bolton blade across his right hip, watching the goosebumps erupt and the blood cascade down his outer thigh. Ramsay inhaled deeply.

"There's a family vault, in the kitchen under—"

"Under the loose slats, yes, I know. Our way of life has a heavy emphasis on _pillaging_, did you really think it would escape our notice?" With vigour becoming of an Ironborn warrior, she sliced at his abdomen once more, this time deeper and longer. "Try again."

"I killed my first wife. I locked her in a tower to eat her own fingers."

Yara mimed a yawn. "Please, Snow, that's practically common knowledge." She proceeded to open up his side once more, the gash looking like a split seam before overflowing red. "You're going to have to do better than that to impress me."

Ramsay could feel every organ in his body seizing up in terror. If the Greyjoy bitch cut him any deeper, he would be in very real danger. Worse than a mere missing finger. On the other hand, he's probably pass out from blood loss, and the game would be at an end. Either way, he had nothing to lose. "My favourite colour is green," he supplied lamely.

For a moment, Yara looked as though she may hack him to pieces, and he cringed as best he could while strung up on that wooden cross. But then she gave pause, and seemed to consider his answer.

"Elaborate." She commanded. "What kind of green?"

"Are you really interrogating me on the subject of my favourite colour?"

"Would you like to get cut again?"

"No, my lady, I would not. I like dark green." He paused. "Salubrious green. Indulgent green."

Intently, Yara Greyjoy gazed into the eyes of the man who had tortured her younger brother.

"God forbid, I'm actually starting to like you, Ramsay Snow. It's almost a pity that I'll have to kill you."


End file.
